


Three Drinks in the Life of Richard Winters

by bigboobedcanuck



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2017-10-24 12:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigboobedcanuck/pseuds/bigboobedcanuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Key moments in Dick and Lew's angsty journey from friends to lovers.</p><p>
  <i>You remember the kiss with a sudden flush of yearning and shame, and convince yourself it was all a dream.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Drinks in the Life of Richard Winters

**Author's Note:**

> This fic uses certain elements of Dick Winters' real life after the war, but it's obviously fictionalized.

**One**

As you tell Lew about Hall, the taste of the cheap alcohol is like acid in your mouth. Your stomach churns, although you’re not sure if it’s the drink or simply the day. Leaving your friend behind, appetite gone, your thoughts tumble together in an exhausted whirl.

It’s only fifteen minutes later when Lew finds you again in the darkness behind a small church. You’re leaning against the worn stone wall, staring into the graveyard, tombstones and angels carving silhouettes in the night. The distant fire of the beaches is out of sight behind you, and here it’s remarkably quiet given how many troops mill about not too far away.

Lew hands over a steaming bowl of stew that smells of onion and beef and makes your mouth water. There’s even a silver spoon resting inside, and you chuckle as Lew sits down on the packed earth with his own bowl and produces a long stick of bread from inside his jacket. “I know you said you’re not hungry, but I thought you might change your mind in the face of baguette and _boeuf en daube_.”

Stomach growling, a smile lifts your lips. “Thanks, Nix.” After swallowing a mouthful of the beef stew, you groan softly. “How did you find food this good?”

Lew grins. “Never underestimate my scrounging abilities. I have to return the bowls and silverware to the nice old lady down the street who’s very grateful to be liberated. I I told her about my hero of a friend who hasn’t had a square meal since yesterday.”

Scoffing, you rip off a piece of bread. “ _Hero_.”

“You’re getting a medal for taking out those guns, Lieutenant Winters. The only question is which one.”

Blinking in surprise, you ponder this, chewing another spoonful of stew. “It wasn’t just me. Buck and the men—”

“Followed your orders. Give yourself some credit.”

You polish off the meal and lean back. When Lew takes out his flask and sips, you nudge him with your elbow. “You didn’t offer me any.” It’s a silly little game you’ve played for too long, but Lew’s supposed to offer, and you say no before he cracks a joke and you both smile. That’s the way it goes.

“I’m afraid you’ll say yes this time! I hear you chugged half a bottle back there.”

Laughing, you marvel. “Heard about that already, huh?”

“I’m the intelligence officer, Dick. I hear everything.”

“Yeah, well, it was a mouthful. A disgusting mouthful, I might add.” Watching Lew light a cigarette, and sitting in peaceful silence, it finally begins to truly sink in — that you’ve survived D-Day. You silently thank God again for your sake, but also for protecting Lew. “Thanks for dinner, Nix.”

Lew smiles. “When we go to Chicago, I’ll take you to a little French place I know.”

Pleasant warmth suffuses your chest as you smile back. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too. They dropped me so far outside the DZ it’s a miracle I didn’t have to swim to Normandy.”

Your smile fades. “Looks like Meehan didn’t make it.”

Lew nods, somber. “Looks that way. You’re commanding officer now. The finest one Easy could ask for.”

You can’t begin to know how to feel, and the words seem to just slip out with your next exhalation. “I killed today.” Your chest is suddenly unbearably tight.

Lew wraps his arm around your shoulders, his hand squeezing gently. “You did your job today. You saved a lot of lives. You’re a hero. Don’t ever doubt that.”

If feels so good to be held, and you lean into him. _Just for a moment_ , you tell yourself. But you stay like that for a whole string of moments, heads resting together, Lew’s arm warm and grounding. A strange thought flickers through your mind, the idea that if you both turned your heads just a couple of inches, you’d be kissing.

For a moment, you’re consumed with _want_ and _need_ , veins surging with it. Exhaling long and slow, you banish the notion. Lew’s none the wiser, and you close your eyes until a distant voice calls sometime later.

Of all the memories of that day, it’s the one in the shadows of the chapel that you hold on to.

 

**Two**

As you shuffle toward the edge of the forest — because you don’t know what else to do in this hollow new world other than your duty — Lipton emerges from the fog, his mouth a grim line, eyes kind. “The men are all settled in, sir. You can head on back for the night. Don’t trouble yourself.”

It would never be a bother to check on your men, least of all tonight, when you want to see them all, hear their voices, clap them on their shoulders and feel them alive and whole. Yet you turn your frozen feet in the snow to go back.

“And sir? We’re all very sorry. Captain Nixon was…well, I don’t need to tell you. He’ll be greatly missed.”

You nod and retreat, because if you try and speak, you’re afraid the only thing that will emerge is a howl.

*

When you realize you’ve walked straight to Lew’s foxhole, you’re not surprised. It seems like you’re all alone in the Bois Jacques, and you drop into the ground, disappearing into the snow and dirt and pine needles, tossing your helmet aside. The tarp is half in and half out, and you don’t bother pulling it over.

On your back, you stare at the dark sky. Another attack could come at any moment, and this hole could be your grave. It wasn’t Lew’s. He was a few clicks away with his maps, just like countless other times since D-Day, scouting and strategizing. Lew and an officer from F Company, they said.

It was a direct hit, they said.

The knot in your gut tightens like a punch and you curl onto your side. The knowledge that there’s nothing left of Lewis Nixon but blood and guts and bone fragments eviscerates you as efficiently as the mortar did him. That you’ll never see his face again, even pale and cold and lifeless, is unbearable in a way nothing else in this war has been.

Your cheek wedges against something hard and metallic, and you wonder idly if it’s an unexploded shell. Picking up Lew’s flask, you almost laugh. You run your fingertips over the worn and well-loved metal before twisting the cap.

As the Scotch blisters your throat, you can’t think of a better way to honour him.

*

You’ve always been a disciplined man.

Women never interested you much — neither the local girls with hopeful smiles nor the glossy starlets on the big screen — but you never allowed yourself to think it through. It was irrelevant, really. One day you’d surely meet the right woman and marry. It was the way of things.

Now, in Lew’s foxhole, you imagine you can still catch his scent in the frigid air, and allow yourself the luxury of the truth.

After D-Day, the perplexing attraction grew stronger daily. With men and friends dying one after the other, you needed to keep him close. Keep him safe. The terror that gripped you on the road out of Nuenen as the bullet’s deadly force knocked Lew to the ground laid you bare.

You’ve wondered what exactly it was Lew saw on your face in that moment, because it was the instant you realized that you loved him above all others on this Earth. That you loved him as you shouldn’t, but forever would.

He squirmed away from your touch and then Lipton was there with the bad news. The moment passed you by, as so many do. It’s stayed in the back of your mind these last months, a lingering shadow.

But you’ve always been a disciplined man.

*

He comes to you in your dreams, icy hands shaking you, pressing against your face as he calls your name. Prying your eyes open, you find him looking down, snow-dusted, his hair tousled. “Dick, wake up.” He tugs at your jacket, trying to pull you up, but of course he’s not really there at all.

As he leans down close, you imagine that through the haze you can feel the heat of his breath against your face, the solidity of his body kneeling beside you. His dark eyes examine you, his brow furrowed, voice getting louder. “Tell me what’s wrong, Dick.”

Something catches his gaze, and the lines on his face deepen as he picks up the empty flask. He hauls you up to sitting as the trees spin around you. If this were real, you’d tell him everything’s okay now that he’s here. But this is your mind playing cruel tricks, and you reach out to touch his cheek, expecting your fingers to fade right into him.

He catches your hand, somehow squeezing tightly. “Did you...did you _drink_ this? The whole thing? Jesus, what happened?” When you don’t answer, not wanting to say the words out loud, he brushes your hair back. “I’m going to get Doc. Sit tight. You’re okay.”

Somehow you know the dream will end and he’ll be gone forever if you let him out of your sight, so you clutch at him. “No.” Your voice sounds distant and strained. “Don’t go.”

He relents, a strong arm around your back as he holds you near.“Tell me what happened.”

“You know.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“You’re dead.”

He jerks. “ _What?_ No, I’m right here. I’m not dead.”

“This is a dream.” Your throat is sandpaper, the words barely scraping out. “You’re gone, Nix.”

“Dick, you’re confused. Probably because you drank enough to knock out most men, let alone a teetotaller. I promise I’m not dead.” He lifts your chin and gazes at you with steady eyes. “Everything’s okay.”

Reaching out, you trace his lips with shaking fingertips. “Nothing’s real anymore.”

“Dick, I’m real. So are you. We’re all right.”

You take his dear face in your hands, pressing your dry lips together, certain that you’ll be holding only air in a moment. But he feels so _alive_ as your mouths open, his tongue warm and moist.

When you sit back, he’s somehow still there, eyes wide, snowflakes caught in his dark lashes. He takes a shuddering breath, and the approaching footsteps must have been muffled by the snow, because suddenly Lipton leans over the foxhole. “Captain Nixon! There you are. Boy, am I glad to see you, sir. We all thought….” He trails off. “I’m sorry. Is everything all right here?”

Lew keeps his arm around you. “Everything’s just fine. I think there was some kind of mix-up, huh?”

Lipton peers at you with obvious concern before answering Lew. “Yes, sir. We were told you and a Fox Company lieutenant got a direct hit over beyond the left flank.”

Lew’s sigh tickles your ear. “There was a change of plans at the last minute. It was Oxley that went. I was in town meeting the General. It ran late.”

“Well, I’m sorry for Oxley, but real glad you’re still with us, Captain.”

As Lipton gives you a compassionate smile and asks Lew if there’s anything he can do, you begin to believe that this is not a figment after all. Blinking, you rub your face and try to make out what Lew and Lipton are whispering to each other, but it’s lost in the whirl of your head, spinning mercilessly.

“Come on, let’s get you to sleep. Everything’s okay now, Dick.”

Lipton is gone, and Lew pulls the tarp over the foxhole before settling your head to his chest. With his arms secure around you, heart beating beneath your ear, everything fades away to blackness.

*

The fog of dawn seeps into your brain, and your head is a cement block as you struggle to wake. Your stomach roils and Lew pats your back, whispering that you’re going to have a hell of a hangover. Sitting up, you try to make sense of where you are and why you feel as if you were struck by a Sherman.

Your voice is hoarse. “Hangover? I don’t drink.” _Were you injured? Sick?_

Lew holds up a canteen of water, and you gulp gratefully. A gentle smile lifts his lips. “Well, you sure did last night.”

As scattered fragments of memory snap back into place, you stare at Lew with sudden understanding, clutching his arm. “They said you were dead.”

“Nah, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. It was all a mistake.” He brushes back your hair, hand lingering.

You’re still tangled in the vestiges of the nightmare, relief cutting through the confusion. Then you feel guilty, but you’re not sure why. “I’m sorry, Nix. I…I don’t know what happened.”

He drops his hand and looks away, some emotion you can’t identify flickering across his face. Then the forest explodes to life, mortars incoming, and you have to do your job, no matter how impossible it seems at the moment. You still don’t really understand what’s happened, but it has to wait.

When the attack is over and the wounded have been treated, the men stream in to visit, as if they need to see with their own eyes that Lew is present and accounted for. There are many smiles and hands clapped on backs, and you watch from the CP with leaden limbs as you piece together strange slivers of memories.

You remember the kiss with a sudden flush of yearning and shame, and convince yourself it was all a dream.

 

**Three**

Lew’s slack-jawed awe as he takes in the dizzying amount of shelves full of bottles makes you laugh and smile, even though a voice in your head says that the last thing he needs is access to more alcohol. But he’s in better spirits lately, and you can’t deny him anything that will bring him such joy.

When you return to the cellar an hour later, Lew is sitting on a big crate in the corner, a sealed bottle in his hand, sunglasses perched atop his head. You smile and take a seat beside him. “Thought you’d have this place half packed up by now. Or consumed. Where is everyone?”

“I told them to come back later.” He holds up the bottle. “This just might be the most expensive bottle of champagne in the world.”

“Only the best for the Nazi elite.”

“Well, since we officially beat those bastards today....” He holds up the bottle triumphantly and then goes to work opening it, finally releasing the cork with a _pop_ that echoes off the stone walls. He closes his eyes and takes a long drink, and you watch his throat working as he swallows.

When he opens his eyes, a smile tugs at his lips, and he offers the bottle. “You took a drink on D-Day, after all. It’s sweet; you’ll like it. Well, maybe.”

You figure what the heck, and take a long gulp. It’s fizzy and lacking bite, and goes down smoothly. “Not bad.”

“Well, never let it be said you don’t have a discerning palate, Major Winters. Go on, help yourself.”

Chuckling, you ask, “Are you trying to get me drunk, Nix?”

“Yeah, I’m hoping you’ll kiss me again.”

Your lungs seize up, and blood rushes in your ears as you stare at his half smile. You’ve never discussed what happened in Bastogne. You buried it deep within the frozen ground, and assumed that Lew forgave and forgot it. But now he looks at you with vulnerability softening his face, and the world tilts on its axis.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Sorry, bad joke.” Standing up, he takes the bottle from your motionless grip and chugs from it. “All right, better get this stuff boxed up.”

You grab for his arm, but he’s already out of reach, and then the young private is calling from upstairs and it’s too late as Harry and Ron stumble in. You leave them to it, and Lew won’t even look over as you say goodbye.

*

It’s close to dawn when laboured footsteps and low voices finally echo in the hallway. You’re quartered in the house of a Nazi whose name you don’t want to know, Lew’s footlocker stowed in the next room. Still dressed, you haven’t even tried to sleep.

Before they can stumble past your room, you step into the hall. Lipton and Randleman skid to a stop, Lew supported between them, head dangling. “Sorry to wake you, sir,” Bull slurs.

“Is he all right?”

Bull and Lipton share a glance over Lew’s lolling head. Lipton wavers on his feet, and you can see the effort it takes for him to focus. “He overdid it a bit. We all did.”

“That’s all right, Lip. You deserve a night off.” You smile so they know you’re not angry. “Get yourselves some sack time. I’ll take it from here.”

Lew is a dead weight in your arms, but you get him into his room as he mutters under his breath about something you can’t make out. In the lavish bathroom, with its marble floor and gold-footed tub, he heaves up pure liquid. His eyes stay open for a few seconds at a time as you clean him up and strip him down to his shorts.

He rinses out his mouth and drinks some water, doing everything he’s told, even though you’re not sure he even knows who you are at the moment. You get him into bed, onto a supple mattress thick with feathers, and he clings to your uniform with surprising strength. Of course you’re not going anywhere, and you kick your boots off.

His drool soaks into your shirt, his bare back smooth beneath your palm.

You wake with the sun despite the fact that you’ve barely slept, and doze off and on for a couple of hours, which feels like the height of indulgence. No runners or orderlies come knocking, so you’re content to stay right there, with Lew sprawled across you.

When he wakes, he blinks at you, brow furrowed. Then a veil falls over his expression, and he clambers out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom. As the water runs, you sit up. Perhaps you should return to your own room; go check on the men; see which reports need to be filled out today.

But you don’t. You stay perched on the edge of the bed, feet bare on the polished wood floor. When Lew opens the bathroom door, his eyebrows shoot up. Still in his shorts, he rubs a hand over his face and wet hair. The feathers rearrange as he sits beside you heavily, and the ticking of an antique clock on the mantel seems suddenly loud as the silence draws out. Finally he speaks. “Please don’t hate me.”

It’s the last thing you expect him to say, and you sputter. “Why would I hate you?”

“Come on, Dick. For what I said. For….” He sighs. “For a lot of things.”

The moment unfurls before you, and you step into it. “I love you, Nix. I could never hate you.”

Lew moves his mouth like a bass in the bottom of your uncle’s boat on Octoraro Lake, staring with eyes wide. Holding his head gently, you lean in and kiss him again. It’s a simple press of lips, and a tremor runs through his body and right into yours.

When you pull back a few inches, he stares with wonder. “So, I’m not crazy? I wasn’t sure if you remembered. Thought maybe I imagined it.”

You kiss him again, sweeping your tongue into his mouth this time, caressing and exploring. You both take a deep breath when you part, and you smile. “Not your imagination.”

“It doesn’t make any sense, but…it does. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah, Lew. I know.”

“Jesus, Dick. I want you so much.”

As you kiss him again, you reach down and stroke him through his shorts, and he groans, tugging on your uniform. Before long you’re both naked against each other, bodies straining, all slick heat and panting breath. It’s actually _happening_ , your hidden fantasies made flesh.

You kiss him like a starving man, and he meets you at every turn, rubbing your leaking cocks in his fist as you strive together for release. When it comes, you both collapse in a tangled heap, heads together on the too-soft pillow. As you breathe deeply, smiles crease your faces.

Lew rubs his nose against yours. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

He kisses you gently. “Everything.”

**  
~~Four~~   
**

“You’re late.”

It’s a sunny day, leaves swaying in the breeze, but Lew sits in the dark library in his armchair. The curtains are drawn, and you can barely make him out in the gloom. “I called three times. You didn’t answer.”

Lew pours himself another tumbler of whiskey and gulps it down. “Why should I answer?”

You stride to the window and yank open the drapes. “We haven’t seen each other in more than a month. Even though you stopped visiting me at Dix, I thought you’d still want to talk to me.”

Holding his hand up to shield his eyes, Lew groans. “Christ, go outside if you want daylight.”

“What I _want_ is for you to stop acting like a child. We need to talk.”

He pours another glass. “I know what you’re going to say, so save your breath.”

“Nix….”

Lew swallows the whiskey as if it’s water. He’s dishevelled and bleary, his shirt untucked from his trousers, hair sticking up. He won’t meet your gaze. “Just go!”

You blink, anger sliced through by hurt. “You really want me to leave?”

He stands and hurls his glass into the empty fireplace. “No, I don’t want you to leave! But you’re leaving! You’re going to Korea. You’re going to do your duty, because that’s who you are. That’s what you do.” He laughs bitterly. “Ol’ guts and glory.”

Softening, you take a step towards him. “Lew, you know I had no choice when they recalled me—”

“Yeah, yeah, had to go serve your country and train a new batch of kids. Well, at least it’ll be a change of pace. I hear Korea’s a lovely place to die.”

“Lewis, stop and listen to me.”

Lew fumbles for the half-empty bottle of Vat 69, but you snatch it from his shaking fingers, backing away as his face hardens in rarely seen fury. “Give it back.”

“Oh, that got your attention, huh? Maybe I should drink the rest. Works so well for _you._ All my problems will disappear, right?”

You tip your head back with the bottle at your lips, but before the alcohol can sear your throat, you’re flat on your back on the hand-woven Persian rug, the whiskey spilling into the thick fibres. Lew’s on top of you, chest heaving, eyes wild. “No. Not you.”

You don’t try to dislodge him. “Why not? You haven’t gone a day without drinking as long as I’ve known you. Clearly I’m missing out.”

“No! I don’t want you to be like me. Jesus, can’t you see?”

“See what?”

Lew drops his forehead to your neck, the fight evaporating from his body. “I tried.” His words are muffled against your skin.

“Tried what?” You soothe your palm over his back.

“To stop.” His breath is hot and moist. “After the last time I saw you at Dix, I knew you were going to Korea. It was real all of a sudden, and when I got home….”

Wrapping your other arm around Lew, you hold him close and wait.

“I couldn’t stand it. Being here without you. I drank everything in the house. The next thing I remember, I was in an alley with the garbage. I don’t know how I got there, what I did all night. But there was mud on me. Dirt. Blood.” He shudders.

Your stomach clenches. “Blood?”

“I think it was mine. Must have gotten into a fight. I don’t know, it was all just…black. Gone.” He takes a breath, still hiding his face in your neck. “And that day I tried to go without it. I made it home, and I cleaned up, and I told myself I’d lay off. But I couldn’t do it, Dick. I can’t do it.” He sobs then, just once.

Tightening your arms, you have to take a deep breath before you can speak. “You can do it. You _will_. I’ll help you, Nix.”

“You won’t be here.” Lew’s crying quietly now, and despite the horrors of the war — of Bastogne and Operation Varsity and Landsberg — it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him shed a tear.

“I’m not going to Korea.”

Lew lifts his head, swiping at his watery eyes. “You’re not?”

“That’s why I was late. Took the train down to Washington to see General McAuliffe. Told him I’ve seen enough of war. I resigned, Lew. He accepted.”

“You’re not leaving me?”

There’s a lump in your throat, and you swallow hard. “Of course not.”

Lew kisses you, lips salty from his tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You sit up and get Lew to his feet, leading him over to the armchair and lowering him down. Sitting back on your heels, your hands rest on his thighs. “I’m not going to Korea, but I do want to leave, Nix.”

Lew’s head jerks, and he reaches to the table beside him for the bottle that isn’t there. You take his hand and go on. “I miss the country. I’ve never fit in here, and I don’t think you do either. Not really. Not anymore.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want you to come with me to Pennsylvania.” Your heart thumps as the words spill out. “The nitration plant is closing next month, so you’ll be out of a job anyway. We’ll get a farm. You won’t have to deal with your family’s expectations and all those society people who want to set you up with their daughters and wonder why you’re still rooming with your war buddy. It’ll be peaceful, Lew. You deserve some peace. We both do.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. “You really want me to come with you? Even after this?”

You smile softly. “I don’t scare easily.” The smile fades. “But I won’t watch you kill yourself.”

He takes a shaky breath. “I need to stop. For good.”

You take Lew’s face in your hands. “Is that a yes?”

Lew nods, and your lips meet, mouths opening as you breathe each other in, tongues seeking. Lew pushes and you pull, stretching out on the carpet, tugging on clothes. You kick the bottle of Vat away as you roll on top of him, both moaning.

In the six years since you first came together in a feather bed in Bavaria you’ve never gone more than a day or two. You’ve had each other every way you can think of, sometimes hard and fast, others slow and steady. Sometimes when he’s deep inside you, you think about what your life would be without him, and dig your fingers into his flesh.

These past too many months since the army called you back, you’ve barely seen him, and the need makes you both desperate. Lew lifts his legs to your shoulders, urging you on. “Like this. Wanna feel you tomorrow.”

Your cock throbs, and you spit into your palm, slicking yourself as best you can before pushing inside. He’s so hot and tight around you, panting as you inch in. He grips your hips, knees hitting his shoulders as he opens up. “Oh, God. _Yes_.”

You thrust hard, the friction so intense that you know it won’t last long. When you hit just the right spot inside him, he cries out, head back, lips parted. His cock is hard and already leaking, and you stroke it in time with the movement of your hips.

Rocking together, you both moan, sweat gathering on your skin. You kiss him messily as you fill his body, as he tells you he loves you over and over until he’s breathless. Lew clamps down as he goes over the edge, groaning loudly as he spurts over your hand and his own chest.

Driving faster in and out, your balls tighten. “ _Nix_ ,” you moan, ecstasy flooding your veins as you come, shuddering. Panting, you wipe the sweat from your brow and lower Lew’s legs down. You stretch out and lie together in the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window.

That night as you huddle in bed, the last bottles of whiskey emptied down the drain, Lew tries to smile, and asks, “Are you going to teach me how to milk a cow?”

Holding him closer, you tell him all about life on a farm, and all the things he’ll learn, and how happy he’ll be. The tremors stop — at least for the moment — and you rest, the future clear in your minds.


End file.
